Dynasty
by SurrenderTheSociopaths
Summary: The aftermath of Thanos' snap brings familiar trauma back to the surface - and familiar coping tactics. Jessica Jones must juggle an unexpected flatmate, her own dwindling sanity and a new case that just won't go away, even when it's the end of the world.
1. Chapter 1

I started writing this story ages ago and got sidetracked by a whole bunch of stuff so stopped working on it. I thought I'd post what I've got over the next few weeks with the vain hope it'll motivate me to finish it!

Hope you guys like it!

* * *

The phone rings non-stop.

For some reason that I am yet to be aware of, they think that _I _can help. Or maybe they're calling to spew some long string of profanities at me. I'm not sure how quick the stages of grief fly by when the whole world is in the same boat, but it wouldn't surprise me if a lot of people have already hit anger and blame. Speaking from experience, the list of criteria you have to meet to be blamed for this kind of stuff is very short.

This being said, I've only had 3 stones thrown through my window since Saturday. That may be up from my total of 0 last week but it's down compared to last year. Of course, when you realise over half of the population was suddenly wiped out, having any stones thrown into your apartment at all is a bit of a bummer. By extrapolation, I would have probably had around 6 smashed windows this week. If the population had somehow spontaneously recovered after being horrifically spliced in half, that is.  
The rain outside and the noises from inside the apartment block form a familiar cacophony that drills into my head. My lips savour the bitter whisky that's found its way up to them and then let loose a long and tired sigh. I set my glass on the desk. The phone _really_ doesn't stop ringing. Even worse, the chimes and buzzes of my cell phone are just as unending. It'll be Trish. I let it ring for a little longer, then I down the rest of the whisky before picking it up.

"Jess?" comes a voice from the other end of the phone.

She's drunk. And worried as always.

"I'm still here." I say. Cold. Like the ice in my glass.

"Good." she sighs. "Good. Jess, I really -"

I cut her off. "We're still here, Trish. Now go home and go to bed."

"No, Jess, wait! -"

I hang up. A smidge of regret hits me but I swipe it away when I remember what she's done. Disasters happen - a lot. She's lucky I've started picking up her calls. I grab the bottle of whisky from the cabinet and pour another finger into the glass. I'm glad I stocked up before it happened. You know, they tried to impose martial law and stuff but they realised they didn't have enough personnel left to do that... So instead their attempt to control the whole 'end-of-days' era is by cutting off anything fun. Posters, flares, etcetera etcetera. Alcohol is of course at the top of that list. Wouldn't want some drunk idiot blowing up the nearest building to avenge his dead family, or something. Which is bad for my liquor cabinet, but I get it. People do stupid things in a crisis. If anything would be cause to strike up another prohibition, I guess this is it.

I was lucky, I know that. I was alone. Woke up on a pile of pictures of some old dude in glasses to the sound of the TV. A plane had crashed into the Chrysler Building and killed a bunch of people. The news reel was made up of people screaming and crying. The local reporters were branding it a second 9/11 - everyone kept pausing, pressing earpieces and looking away in wait for information about other _attacks _that may have taken place. Then as the minutes passed by they started realising the real reason for the screaming. I'd rushed into the kitchen for a jacket. I only caught the last part of the broadcast while I reached for my cell on the desk. Even with what I can do, with what I'm capable of? I knew it was out of my league. My phone slipped out of my hand and I threw my jacket on the floor. For some people it was seconds apart. For others it took up to a day before they went too. That's what made it so painful. Footage of people rejoicing in the street after hours of digging out their loved ones before turning to dust. Not even a body left to mourn. There's only thing comforting about that - there's still some kind of closure. Sure, you watch your kid or your mother or your partner for ten years crumble to nothingness mid-sentence. But at least you know they've gone. When people live their lives alone or happen to be demolishing a wall at the time of the event, it gets a lot harder to establish whether they're dead or on holiday in France somewhere. This obviously explains a lot of calls to my office. So for the first few days when I was still answering the phone - well, that was a stupid idea. You know how most people die from a heart attack on the toilet or some stupid shit like that? Yeah, well I had to turn down a lot of missing person cases involving dust in the bathroom. Miraculously, most of the callers don't know about my... abilities. The ones that do sound far more desperate - or far angrier. I treat them all the same, naturally. Even the occasional plea from government agencies that have caught wind of what I can do. Anything I pick up doesn't last longer than a few seconds.

Of course, there's only so much I can ignore.

My fingers grip the chiselled glass in my hand a little harder as my chest gets a little tighter. There's an empty bedroom in the apartment below.

As soon as I realised what had happened, I started seeing _him_ again. It's getting worse the further we get from it. I hear him, first in the distance, then through the hairs on my neck. When I squeeze my eyes shut, they open again in a different place. Right now I'm on a balcony, staring at the street a hundred windows below with a bright yellow dress flapping in the summer wind. Only, the sun isn't actually shining and I'm soaked to the bone in rain. A thunderclap quickly follows a flash of lightning that crackles behind the bridge in the background; the noise startles the ghost of a horse down below and its frightened yelps cause me to almost tumble over the edge.

"Jessica." says Kilgrave softly, but sternly. This isn't the same moment now, I know. His voice makes clear that I've lost all glimmers of freedom - and though in the back of my head I know he's gone, that I'm free, right now I'm here in the pouring rain as he makes his way to the ledge in his purple suit. He touches my ear but I can't pull away. As blood starts to wind its way down his fingers, flowing faster and faster, he cups my head and presses his body against mine.

"Main street. Birch street," I say desperately, but I still can't move.

"Don't be selfish Jessica." Blood oozes through his fingers and all sound is blocked from one ear.

"Main street. Birch street. Higgins drive. Co-"

The rooftop fades and I blink back into a silent version of my apartment. Kilgrave's hands rest comfortably in his pockets.

"Was I not enough for you, then?" he asks me solemnly. This feels more real now. The patter of rain is subdued by the apartment walls.

"I'm sad, really, I am, that your boyfriend's quite_ literally_ bit the dust, but this - me being here - just goes to show you that you'll never really get over what we had."

My head boils but it shakes just so slightly enough to warn him that Oscar is in a far, untouched corner of my mind. He searches my eyes for the reason real he has appeared. Not his hated succession by my dead boyfriend. No, for the familiar feeling of all control and freedom having been ripped out from under me all over again. The moment he finds it, his head briefly twists and snaps as it did when I killed him.

"Oh, you're not still stuck on that, are you? Free will, control, all that bollocks?" he sighs stroppily. "You know, even _I'm_ not upset about it anymore! So what if you're not out playing good Samaritan? Even if you were being a decent human and going outside to help them - controlling things out there won't mean you'll claw back control in here!" he points to his head, eyes bulging.

"Truthfully Jessica, if you can't even _will_ yourself to go out and help _them_, those -" he struggles for the words. "Funny, _desperate_ people trapped under rubble in the streets..." he pauses. His ego wraps around him like a cloud and all outside problems are forgotten. "Well then, you weren't ever even really free to love me back in the first place."

Before he can say any more I throw the whisky glass with all my strength straight through his image and into the wall ahead. The glass shatters on impact but not before it's made a dent, with pieces of whisky-soaked glass embedded into the caved plaster like the fragmented mouth of a homeless tramp.

Even though the phone is still ringing, I miss the reassurance of angry shouting from somewhere below.

_This is why I stay inside._

* * *

After a few swigs from the bottle and a long cast glance into the hallway, I throw myself onto my bed to sleep.

Usually the alcohol knocks me out enough for me not to be bothered by dreams. Tonight's different - of course it is. That first day, when night had fallen and the agonised screams had stopped, I heard movement through the corridors. I can hear the same movement now.

I peel myself from the bed and move through the quickly dissipating dream to the door. Before I can do much else a hurried knock sounds at it.

Malcom? No, I don't know whether he's... He wouldn't knock here now anyway.

The knocks sound again. I reach for the handle but the door is stuck. The sounds are getting closer together. Trish? With a significant tug I pull open the door. Looking into vastness, I see no-one there.

Then I look down.

It's Vido.

I wake up with a gasp and find myself standing on the inside of the door to my apartment. Rain still splashes against the windows. I don't usually dream but the exhaustion of today is just as familiar as every other day this week (and from what it feels like, most of my life). Grumbling, I come to my senses. I don't usually sleepwalk either. The phone is silent. The door looms in front of me. For the reassurance, I rip it open.

In front of me are two worried, and evidently _surprised_ faces.


	2. Chapter 2

The faces in front of me are that of a slender woman in her 40's and a younger lady somewhere near her late teens. Both look cold and distressed.

"It's 3 a.m." I curtly remind them.

"They told me you had abilities but I didn't know you could do _that_." the older woman says, bewildered. I recognise her.

"What?"

"Well," she says, looking offended. They always look offended, no matter what I do or don't do. "We never knocked!"

I look them up and down and sigh. _This again._

"I need to sleep. Come back in the morning."

As I start to push the door the teenager stops it. It takes more effort to restrain my strength then it does to maintain the force against the door.

"It's okay honey," assures the woman, who I now recognise to be one of my employers for a case I was working when this all started.

"No mom," the teenager asserts. "I'm not leaving until she listens to us."

She turns to me and with her smug, rounded teenage face looks me dead in the eye.

"It's urgent." she says, hand still pressed against the partially boarded-up door. I push it a little harder from my side until she pulls back her hand with surprise.

"Look outside _honey_." I hiss at her. I know, I'll probably regret that. "The world is falling apart and not even the Avengers are here to mop things up. Everything's urgent. Now go home."

The older woman, with a tight dress that comes down to her ankles, grabs her daughter around the shoulders and shoots a defensive glare back at me. Some sensation of regret hits me. I sigh.

"Come back tomorrow and I'll see what I can do."

She shakes her head and leads the teenager away.

* * *

I wake up on the couch with a headache. When I get up I scan past a folder under a couple of old bottles. It's about the husband of the woman at my door last night - the case was nothing new: he started coming home late, she found lipstick stains on his shirts, etc. etc. Years 'll pass but New York never changes. I hadn't noticed them in any of the messages I did actually listen to but no doubt Mr Warner has now mysteriously gone missing. His wife and step-daughter think they're special, I guess. They start paying you and suddenly they think they're entitled to unexpected house calls. With the vain hope of not ruining whatever shreds of professionalism I claim to hold, I clear the clutter from my desk. If they're coming back today, it's better for it to be tidy. The phone starts to ring and I rip the cable from the wall. Tidy and quiet.

I shuffle over to the kitchen and pull open the fridge door. Mostly empty. What better metaphor for this shit than a half-empty fridge? I grab the only slice of pizza not growing mould and rest against the counter. Before long, my cellphone starts to buzz. Trish. I turn it to silent.

The scientists are having a field day with this whole semi-extinction thing. By the end of the first few days they'd sussed out that it was about half the population that vaporised, but it took them a while to agree that ours wasn't the only species that might have been caught up in all this. That's a very human thing to do, I get it. You'd have thought all the bird watchers in the world got their word in pretty quickly but I suppose their reports might have been pushed to the side a little bit here.

Anyway, plenty of people are getting their money's worth with the whole thing. All the UFO freaks were particularly pleased when a whole load of debris started burning up in the atmosphere. They're all making a fortune, or at least keeping themselves so fascinated that they don't care whether they're making any money or not. Disaster's good for some people. Not for me. Normal business has stopped. Potential cases are all the same, but far quicker to solve. And like always, people don't want to pay for news they don't want to hear; but this time I'm getting tired of debt collecting from widows and widowers. Grief is an ugly thing to have to fight with, especially when the whole of society is trying desperately to hold itself together.

People are asking for the Avengers.

No matter how stupid you might think I am, I do realise that I should be helping. Late at night I think about calling that lawyer, Murdock, or that stuck up asshole Danny Rand, or maybe even Luke (if I could get past the embarrassment), and assembling them for another vaguely successful team. But I'm stuck here. I couldn't even tell you if the others are still alive. Hell, I barely know if -

Never mind.

I should go out to help them. People may be incredibly dumb but they'll eventually appreciate someone's limits. Even if it's stepping out of the shadows to clear some wreckage or knock a few guys out keeping the peace...

But then I think of throwing glass through an imaginary Kilgrave in my living room. I think of waking in the night to see Vido crying at my door, and me shutting the door on him. I think of all the deaths on me. The car crash. My mother. Hope Shlottman.

I was never a hero. No matter what I do, it's never enough. And besides, this is way, _way_ beyond my capabilities.

I can't help them.

I don't know who can, but it's not me.

I'll try to be one a thousand times over but it's a fact I can't change.

My eyes cast to the clock by my liquor cabinet. 9:47am. Too early to drink. I was expecting the woman and her kid to have shown up by now. I think about Vido. He's with child protective services at the moment - his mom never came to get him. His grandma can't help him either, on account of the fact that she died a couple months ago, and all. And then Oscar... Sucks to be that kid. I know how the orphan thing feels. My thoughts are rudely interrupted by a knock on the door.

I swing it open expectantly.

It's not them.

"Hello?" says an old lady clutching a handbag.

"Uhh. Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm Nora. Nora Sutcliffe."

She tries to hand me what looks like a photograph of her and her cat. I don't extend my hand. I don't really want old people smell on me.

"My cat Roger hasn't been home for a week," she trembles slightly when she talks. I think she's put off by the broken window. I'm glad it's working. "They told me you could help?"

"I'm sorry Mrs Sutcliffe, now isn't really a good time."

"It's Ms Sutcliffe, actually. Oh well - I'm quite an old lady, you see, and well, when you lose a friend you've known for so long then, then well you really would do anything to get them back, and -"

"What did you say your cat's name was?"

"Well the grandkids call him Lucky but his name's really Roger, like that Captain America fellow's last name, you know?"

"And Roger was where, when you last saw him?"

"Well I went into the kitchen to make myself some tea. I'd left the window open in the sitting room, because my George had been round and he said it was all stuffy. Then when I went back in..."

"He was gone? Was there a small pile of dust in the sitting room when you came back in?"

"Well now that you mention it, it was a little dustier than usual. You don't think -"

"Well then, I hate to tell you Mrs Sutcliffe but Lucky wasn't so lucky after all. "

I close the door on her. Her grumbles extend for quite some time before she gives up and goes home. Now in reality, I did her a favour. Taking on the case of a deluded grandmother in search for her dead cat would be highly unethical. Believe it or not, I don't like to exploit people. I wish I did, because I could really use the money right now. It's surprising that money is still holding its worth, yes, with world in chaos and all, but it's still what people are asking for when you try to take some milk from your nearest grocery store. Or bartering for the last bottle of scotch in some speakeasy's storage room.

I decide to listen to some of the phone messages and sit down at my desk. It takes a few minutes before I realise why the phone isn't working - the cable still lies a few feet from its socket where I'd pulled it out of before. When I plug it back in, it makes a reassuring _beep_ and the screen lights up. I open voicemail. _You have 32 new messages._ And this not counting last night.

_To skip message, key - First message: Received at 1:07am, May 11th: Hi, I really hope I have the right number. Is this Jessica Jones? I'm sorry it's so late. The police basically told me to get lost but I really need help. I'd know if my brother - Message Skipped. Next message: Received at 5:58am, May 11th: Hey freak, I hope you have your door nailed shut right now because we're gonna - Message deleted. Next message: Received at 7:24am, May 11th: Miss Jones? Someone gave me this number. My son hasn't been home in two weeks, and before you say it, no, it wasn't due to whatever this was. I'm begging you -_

"Kids leave home." I mumble as I throw the phone back onto the desk. "Lucky them."

I skim through the files on the husband of the woman at my door last night again. David Warner, short guy who wears glasses too big for his face. Manages a garage a little out of town. Screwing his secretary - see photos attached. Also screwing a barista at his morning coffee stop. More importantly, screwing over his wife. I didn't get the chance to reveal yet. Maybe she found out and accidentally killed him. That'd be pretty urgent. Warner married into the family a couple of years ago and now lives with Susanne Warner and a daughter from one of her earlier marriages. The daughter's 18 and apparently was to be kept out of this whole affair. That would explain why this is the first time I met her. I wonder if she knows now, or if mommy's as good at keeping secrets as her step-dad is.

I'll give them a few days and then I'll call them.

By night time I've found my way through half a bottle of something and a cake I found in some bakery's dumpster outside. Desperate times, huh? I've been lucky today - only 2 visitors and none of them imaginary or creepy as hell. The TV is playing in the background - it helps to block some of the noise of the telephone. I decided not to keep tearing it out of the wall because who knows, I might get something important through there one day. The news broadcast playing talks about all the orphaned children and horrendous overcrowding in whichever empty Walmart store they've been shoved into. I think of Vido.

"Ughh, I know!" I shout at the TV, burying my face into a couch pillow like a teenager. The reel keeps going in the background.

Guilt is a wondrous thing.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes me 3 hours of phoning various CPS and associated idiots before I catch wind of where Vido is being kept. I just want to check in on him; apparently that's not one of the phone options in these automated calls. Most taxi and subway services were suspended - on account of the fact that up until recently there were many crashes involving aforementioned methods of transport - so I guess I'll have to walk.

As I leave the apartment, I think about the urgent cold-call of the Warner family and go back in to write a note. It's amazing how long people will wait for at a sign that says 'back in 5 minutes'.

Taking a few steps outside lets me breathe a sigh of relief. While PA systems on-loop still declare national emergency, people here seem to have finally found some peace. Rubble cleared from buildings struck by buses or planes has been pushed against the side of an abandoned bank, so the street at least looks more or less like it would normally. The only thing missing is the usual traffic. The hurriedly assembled emergency shelters (put up within the first few days to store bodies, food and medical supplies) have mostly since been _dis_assembled, bar a few lone tents of corpses not yet collected by surviving morticians. The day is calm and for the first time that I've ever lived in this city, I can hear the faint buzz of nature in the background.

I'm heading towards a large library a fair few blocks away from the apartment. I'm tempted to pick up speed and take a higher, more _scenic_ route through the city. Some kids tumble through a couple of garbage cans, blissfully unaware of their lucky escape from death or bodily impairment, and I'm reminded that it's probably not a good idea to go showing off in public. Crowded and bubbling, but watching passers-by with beady eyes, the community I pass through next reaffirms my apprehension. I decide to stick firmly to the ground for the next few days.

When I get to the library, I'm greeted by a commotion: three people with lanyards swinging from their necks try to restrain a screaming, well-built teenager as he throws expletives and plenty of punches in their general direction. A few yards from them is a scrawny-looking youngster with fiery ginger hair; a trickle of blood falls from his - maybe her - nose as they angrily explain their side of the story to a fourth lanyard-clad person. Some distant crying draws the attention of the 4 nervous kids sat on a small row of plastic chairs helpfully labelled 'Processing' with a handwritten piece of A4. At the library's reception desk - labelled 'Reception' with a note like at 'Processing', despite some engraved golden lettering long predating the paper announcement - a large lady with glasses on a chain sits rifling through papers.

I'm trying to ignore the increasingly loud shouting next to us as I approach the desk.

"I'm uh, looking for a kid called Vido Arocho." the sting of awkwardness and a whisper of regret trickle into my throat. "I just wanted to see how he was doing, and... Yeah."

The woman's voice boasts a lifetime's practice of condescension.

"You know him?" she asks with impatience.

"Yeah, his dad and I were -"

The woman cuts me off almost immediately.

"Does he like you? The kid, I mean?"

"I guess -" but before I finish my sentence, the woman vanishes out of sight. She swiftly reappears with an office boy standing beside her - he holds a stack of papers in greasy looking hands and peers at me behind a pair of glasses that have cracked slightly in one of the corners.

"What did you say your name was again?" says the large lady, lifting her own glasses onto her nose.

"I didn't." I reply curtly.

"Print and sign here."

The paper she pushes into my hand was obviously made in a rush on whatever archaic version of Office Word they have installed on the library's systems, and printed with the dying ink cartridge of an equally old relic of a printer.

"You're kidding me, right?" I ask, deadpan. The shoddily assembled contract masquerades as a legal document appointing guardianship of Vido to me.

"Look lady," starts the office boy, my puzzled expression reflecting back at me on the surface of his glasses. "We're drastically overcrowded and hilariously understaffed. We got more shipments of kids every day, with no segregation of boys and girls, teenagers or toddlers and nothing to entertain any of them." It's clear he's heard the speech so many times before, he has it memorised. "We're actually only obligated to hold them until -"

The receptionist holds a hand up to the office boy, silencing him.

"Practice that in the mirror much?" I say under my breath. The receptionist doesn't notice.

"Don't I recognise you from somewhere?" She adjusts the glasses on her nose and leans forward. No showing off, I remind myself. I quickly take a pen off the counter. Now is not a time for making trouble. And besides, I wouldn't want to be holed up in a shithole like this. As I scrawl something that vaguely resembles a name in the signature box, I hear a thud on the floor and see the bulky teenager from before pressed down by 6 exasperated CPS employees. The receptionist peers past me to observe the event for the first time. She sighs.

"Should I go find," the office boy looks down at the papers to jog his memory. "Vido?"

Fearful of acting on my impending desire to cause a scene, I immediately offer to go with him.

The receptionist squints at me disapprovingly but eventually mumbles 'alright'. I'm led through a a couple of rows of _Fiction: New Releases_, around a shelf of _Self-Help Guides_ and up some stairs; the place is littered with chattering children who drag along sleeping bags and use stacks of books to anchor the forts they make with them. Upstairs is a more formal set of sleeping quarters and presumably a kitchen further along.

"Vido! Vido Aracho! Anyone seen Vido?"

"Arocho." I correct him, but he doesn't seem to care.

"They know who I mean."

The next time he calls out I cut him off with my own shout of "Vido!". I return his disturbed glare with a smile. Soon enough the kid comes out of the shadows, looking scruffy but otherwise seeming normal. Whatever's meant to be normal for a kid like him in a situation like this.

"Jessica?" he asks, bubbling with excitement. I swallow down my earlier pangs of regret and focus on getting out without any prying questions.

"Hey Vido, did you bring anything with you?"

Vido looks up at the nerdy man next to me in confusion.

"They didn't let us take anything." he says dejectedly.

"Cool," I say, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Long story short, you're coming with me."

The office boy walking us back to the reception raises his eyebrow as he detects some insincerity. He's sort of right of course. What the hell am I going to do with a kid? I can't leave him here I guess. By the time we get back to the main desk, the remnants of the fight before have all but dissipated. Fortunately, another fight between some much younger kids breaks out as we shuffle towards the heavy doors of the exit, giving me some reassurance that I've made the right decision.

On the way back to the apartment, we walk practically in silence. This is the first time since the event that Vido's been outside, he tells me, so he soaks in all his environment in amazed gulps as we walk along. About halfway along my pocket starts vibrating.

"Trish." I say holding the phone to my ear. Vido looks at me with eager eyes.

"Jess? I thought you'd never answer."

"Yeah well lucky for you I'm feeling charitable. What do you want?"

"I need to see you."

"You're talking to me now."

"Jess I can't explain it over the phone."

"I'm busy. I'm working cases."

_Well, one case and_ \- I look down at Vido to meet his gaze.

"You're the only one I know who I can turn to."

"Alright, I'm hanging -"

"Jessica!"

"I can't see you right now. Just tell me what's going on."

"Malus' experiment worked. I thought I'd come away as the same person but I'm not. I found out a few weeks before it all happened. I can do things... I can't describe it."

I slow to a stop as Vido walks on. In this second I can't summon the rage that I feel should come so naturally to me here. I'm caught speechless.

"Just let me show you -" Trish begins.

"I don't want to see it." I snap back. I have far more things to worry about than a self-righteous freshly made superhero.

"Please, Jess. I don't know what to do with myself."

"Are you drunk right now?"

"No Jess, I'm not drunk!"

I sigh. I can't bring myself to hang up the phone. A minute passes before I know how to answer.

"A lawyer by the name of Matt Murdock. There's a couple more around the city but noise is that he's still up and running. Find him and he'd help you."

"And if he's gone?"

"There's a nurse at Metro General called Claire Temple. She won't give you anything easily but she knows about the others."

"I still need to see you."

"That's all the help you're getting from me, Patsy."

Hanging up the phone, I suddenly realise Vido has wandered almost a street away. _Shit._

"Vido!" I shout, running after him. He stops in the middle of the road, gazing on as a light tank - yes, a tank - storms ahead towards him. I rush into the road and push against the tank until it stops.

Vido stumbles back onto the pavement, bewildered.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" barks one of the personnel from the tank. He's thrown the question directly to Vido, who gazes up red-faced to me.

"Kid's with me, asshole, you can spare him the lecture."

He points a gun in our direction and I throw Vido behind me.

"What did you just call me?! I'll have you know I have the authority to shoot anybody obstructing this vehicle and her journey."

Tilting my head, I give him a look. He's a coward, I can tell.

"You're not curious how I stopped your vehicle?"

"Listen little miss smart-mouth, I'll remind you again that I have the authority to shoot whoever stands in my goddamn way."

I rip an exposed metal bar from a fallen pillar on the floor and fold it in half with minimal exertion. I walk closer to the tank, look into the gun's barrel and hook the metal over the lowered window.

"Not curious at all?"

The man looks back at his colleagues. He recognises me, I know it. Must have been told about the weirdos presiding over Hell's Kitchen.

"D'ya think that gun will do anything to me? And don't pretend that this is some foreign war-torn warzone - even if you shoot me, just think what all those people watching will think of you." he looks up and sure enough is greeted by faces peering at him through their windows. "Fellow Americans remembering your face."

The guy looks defeated and tilts his head back to listen to the scattered whispers from his colleagues behind him. Grumpily, he retracts his gun. He doesn't bother peeling the metal bar from his window.

"Roll out!" he eventually shouts. The tank leaves and Vido and I are left standing on the kerb.


End file.
